


Adjustments

by mysticalmusicwhispers



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Australia and New Zealand are the minor characters, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Mentioned China (Hetalia), Mentioned Macau (Hetalia, Slurs, technically Canada and India are too but they have more speaking roles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29050662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticalmusicwhispers/pseuds/mysticalmusicwhispers
Summary: Hong Kong’s first week at England is full of surprises. There are… a lot of things to get used to, to say the least.*Warnings: one slight racial slur used in a historical context.
Relationships: Canada & Hong Kong (Hetalia), England & Hong Kong (Hetalia), India and Hong Kong (Hetalia
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	Adjustments

**Author's Note:**

> Ho Keang: Macau  
> Neeraj: India  
> Jett: Australia  
> Toby: New Zealand
> 
> Reposted from my [tumblr](https://mysticalmusicwhispers.tumblr.com) ([original post](https://mysticalmusicwhispers.tumblr.com/post/614411304720056320/an-hk-fic-feat-england))! 
> 
> _The Treaty of Nanjing/Nanking was signed on August 29, 1842, ending the first Opium War and ceding Hong Kong to England._

_1842, London, England_

Leon sat on a small cushioned ottoman, swinging his legs idly, and watched the rain pitter-patter on the windowpane. Arthur had left him there hurriedly as he scrambled to get ready for a meeting with _"my dear Queen Vicky”_ downstairs, and he’d ordered Leon to stay there until he came back to fetch him. At first, Leon had looked around, at the slightly peeling wallpaper decorated with flowers he couldn’t name and fruits he’d never tasted, then at the pile of toys gathering dust in a corner, model soldiers wearing neat uniforms Yao would have despised, miniature guns and cannons that “the barbarians” used, and then to the tall grandfather clock that announced each passing minute with a loud _tick_. But he’d gotten bored fast; there was barely anything else in the room except for him and the wallpaper and the shaggy, rather moth-eaten carpet, and he retreated to the cushioned seat by the window, thinking about the week after he’d arrived at Arthur’s. Everything was new, and all of it was strange, nearly confusing.

At the very least, there were certainly a lot of things to get used to at Arthur’s house.

* * *

On the first day after he’d arrived, “Ka Lung” became “Leon”. Arthur said his old name was too hard to pronounce,

(“I’ll never be able to say it properly, so if you don’t want to correct me all the time, you might as well agree to change it”),

and anyway, Leon sounded like lion, which was an equally nice name.

(“It’s on my coat of arms, for courage and bravery. Don’t you want to be named after it?” he’d asked, and Ka Lung, no, _Leon_ knew better than to answer “no” to that question.)

When he’d tried to tell Arthur that “龍” (lóng) meant dragon, which was _just_ as noble as a lion, and _definitely_ more legendary, Arthur had waved off the comment, muttering something like, “Don’t you know about George and the dragon? Dragons are bad luck here. No, no, no, you’re Leon from now on, alright?” And he’d put a reassuring hand on Leon’s shoulder, but looked distracted all the same, and Leon gave up trying to change his name. That evening, during the silent dinner, he’d carefully stowed “Ka Lung” away in a faraway closet in his mind, like a favorite, treasured jacket that had fallen out of fashion. He promised to himself he’d take it out from time to time, to savor its feel, the sound of his _real name_ on his tongue, so he wouldn’t forget. “Leon”, he decided, was the new coat that smelled like fresh fabric, given to him by a well meaning but distant uncle, and wasn’t tailored to fit him well.

* * *

On the second day, Arthur had taken a pair of scissors and cut Leon’s ponytail, which had grown into one nearly as long as Yao’s, neat and straight down his back.

(“Long hair’s fallen out of fashion decades ago; I don’t know why you still have this rat tail growing out of your head,” he’d said with an almost bark-like laugh, and Leon couldn’t tell if “rat tail” was a well meaning joke or a snide remark wrapped in the premise of a friendly laugh.)

Leon didn’t argue about the haircut,

(after all, asking to keep “Ka Lung” hadn’t worked, had it?),

and just watched the soft black hair that was so much like Yao’s fall to the floor in tufts, like black snowflakes. Afterwards, he walked to the large oval mirror with the elaborate bronze frame, golden brown eyes passing over his new choppy mullet with a certain sadness, like how he felt when Yao cried quietly into his shoulder at the dock as Arthur waited impatiently, a somber mood that made him yearn for the past. His neck felt cold without his hair, the skin more exposed, like some important part of him had just been ripped away.

Later, when the sun had fallen below the horizon, he went back and swept his hair into the dustpan that Arthur had shown him in the bathroom. He poured his sheared black locks into a newspaper he’d found lying on the leather couch, the headline reading “ _New British Colony: Her Majesty’s Grip Over the World Increases_ ”. He didn’t look at the rest of the article, just folded the paper neatly and placed it in a cabinet in the large wardrobe in his room, a small memorial for a part of him that was now outdated.

* * *

On the third day, Leon slept alone at night for the first time in his life. The first two nights, he’d been too tired to stay awake until eight, and had woken up on the couch, covered in a quilted blanket that Arthur must have placed over him when he’d fallen asleep. But this time, he’d been sent upstairs by Arthur, who’d said, in a firm voice that clearly indicated an order, “Wash up in the bathroom, then go to bed right after. Curfew is at eight o’clock sharp from now on, so remember that, because I won’t keep reminding you. I’ll be in the room across the hall if you need me, but I’ve got a bit of work to do before turning in, so I might stay downstairs for a while.” And when Leon kept standing in the hall, more than a little shocked that Arthur wouldn’t be coming up with him, he was nudged gently towards the stairs, along with a “Well, go on! I doubt you want me to carry you up.”

So he’d padded slowly up the stairs, confused, but not daring to disobey orders.

(He knew too well from Yong Soo what would happen if he crossed Yao, and Arthur might be just as unyielding.)

When he reached the washroom, he’d had to call Arthur up to tell him what to use and how to use it. He’d gaped when he found out there wasn’t any hot water supply; he’d have to boil water on the stove before bringing it upstairs if he wanted to use warm water at all. There was no soap, just vinegar, which Arthur had proclaimed was “very good for cleaning the body”, and a sponge for “soaping off”. When Leon had asked if he was supposed to wash his hair with vinegar as well, Arthur had handed him another bottle that he said was ammonia. He’d said Leon was to mix a small amount with water and massage it onto his scalp.

(“But be careful; if you add too much ammonia, you might burn away some of your skin too.” Leon wasn’t sure if he was joking when Arthur didn’t give any hint of cracking a smile.)

Arthur had laughed when he asked if there was anything _safer_ to use as a hair cleanser, and suggested onion juice.

(“If you can stand the smell, it’s guaranteed to make your hair shinier!”, he’d said, with a good natured smile.)

When Arthur had gotten annoyed with all his questions, he’d huffed: “Even the wealthiest of my citizens bathe about twice a month, okay? I’m only allowing you this,” he’d wrinkled his bushy eyebrows as he searched for the right word, “this... _luxury_ because Yao told me you might have something of a cultural shock if you lived like my people.” And he’d fixed Leon with a look that plainly said _“Are you happy now? Now that you’ve learned the alternative?”_

After that, Leon stopped complaining.

But when Arthur didn’t come upstairs shortly after he’d gotten into bed, Leon started to get worried. He longed for Yao, for the warmth of their shared bed when he was younger, for the small gas lamp that chased away the monsters in the dark, and for his older brother’s comforting presence in his room and his reassuring whispers that the darkness was nothing to be afraid of. And as he lay, in his cold, new bed in a strange room halfway across the world from everything he’d known, the fear started to eat at him again. Arthur hadn’t checked the closet, under the bed, hadn’t proved the crack under the door was spirit-proof. Even the spirits could be different, he thought with a pang of fear, and maybe he wouldn’t know they were dangerous until it was too late.

So Leon tried to ignore the twangs of panic strumming nervously in his chest, and curled up into a small ball under the covers in a brave but futile attempt to sleep. And when Arthur marched wearily upstairs nearly two hours later, exhausted from reviewing the terms of a trade agreement, he’d stuck his head into Leon’s room to find large, scared eyes looking up at him out of a pale, almost deathly white face. Leon had practically flung himself at Arthur, shaking slightly, and asked him quietly to stay. He’d felt arms wrapping awkwardly around him, like they were unsure of what to do, how to act, and he suddenly wished Yao were here; it would’ve been so much _simpler, so much easier_ with Yao.

And when Leon had finally been coaxed back into bed by Arthur, who’d sat, looking almost annoyed, on the edge of the bed, quietly trying to explain that darkness was not something to be afraid of, Leon just thought of Yao. He tried to imagine Yao sitting where Arthur was, telling him stories and whispers of dreams, and finally, Leon fell into a fitful sleep punctuated by dreams of dark shadows and a disembodied voice that was prim and proper and echoing, a voice that scolded him for his childish fears.

* * *

On the fourth day, Arthur had called him down at four o’clock sharp, and when he walked into the dining room, there was a tea set on the table. Leon remembered tea with Yao and Mei and Hou Keang, the small clay cups with no handles and the comically squat, round teapot, the slight bittersweet flavor of green tea and the flowery aroma of chrysanthemum, and how Yao would always hand them a hot cup to warm their hands on a cold day, while he spun stories and legends out of the air. But this was different. Arthur’s table had been set meticulously, the cups made of fine china that was painstakingly similar yet so, so different from the blue and white porcelain Yao prized. There were more pitchers and teapots and cups than he could ever remember seeing at Yao’s house, and they were all sitting on small plates and coasters painted with blushing pink roses and delicate flowers, their edges gilded finely with gold. Arthur had told him this was his first lesson in “proper tea drinking”.

(“I’ll tell you what all the pitchers contain in a minute, and then you can just follow my example, alright? I’ve been drinking this stuff for almost two centuries, so I think I’m qualified to say my tastes and tea drinking process are more refined than most.”)

And when Leon tried to say that Yao had started cultivating his tea tastes eons before the Black Death,

(He’d whispered to Ka Lung one night, “I actually spread the Black Death to Europe. By accident, of course, but I don’t regret anything,” a conspiratorial smile on his face),

Arthur had just shaken his head and sighed a little.

“Just sit down opposite me, and copy whatever I do. This is the _new age_ of tea, and _I’m_ the new standard to follow, got it? Whatever you’ve been taught”, he’d waved a hand airily, “are the old ways. They’re outdated, you see?” And Leon had nodded, not really listening. He’d plopped down in the hard, wooden chair opposite Arthur, and gazed absentmindedly at the vase of dried flowers as he only half listened to Arthur drone on and on about the milk and sugar and lemons and the proper way to hold a teacup. When he’d finally received his tea, it was only lukewarm, not the piping hot he’d expected, and without thinking, he raised it to his lips. He’d forgotten what Arthur had said about the type of tea, and when to add the cream, or the lemon, just remembered how he was supposed to thank Yao for pouring out the tea with a rap of his knuckles on the table, and how the warmth that reminded him of home and family spread down his chest with each gulp.

So he’d drunk the tea, swallowed the whole cupful, and lowered the delicate china slowly, realizing too late what he’d done and staring timidly at Arthur’s bitter frown. Leon gulped.

“Did you listen to a bloody word I said?” Leon sighed, resigned to the worst.

“No...”

“Ughhh...” Arthur had sighed, putting his head in his hands. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected, seeing as this is your first time drinking _proper_ tea, and the way Yao drinks... I assume you’ve picked up most bad habits from him. I’ll let you go this once, but if you haven’t got it after I show you everything, well...” He trailed off rather menacingly, before pouring Leon a fresh cup and continuing. “Look carefully now, and I’ll direct you step by step. First, you’re holding the teacup wrong. You’ve got to lift your pinky, see?”

And by the time Leon was free to leave the small tea table, the elaborate clock on the wall had read six o’clock, and a light rain had begun to fall. He’d trudged up to his room and flumped on the bed, tired from the lecture and the small, tea drinking specifics Arthur had been so hung up on. It was all so confusing, so _random_ , and Leon felt a wave of longing for his old home again. At the least, life at Yao’s had never seemed _this_ complicated.

* * *

On the fifth day, Arthur prepared what he’d called “a splendidly lavish supper”, starting to prepare the food shortly after they’d finished tea.

(“It’s my mission to educate you about the finer points in dining, and that begins with a proper British supper.”)

Leon had gaped as dish after unfamiliar dish was served, all of them varying shades of dull gray or green, and all reeking of some peculiar stench. He’d been baffled by the gleaming sets of forked silver sticks, and when Arthur picked up his knife, he finally couldn’t hold his tongue. He’d stated proudly, “Yao told me knives are used by barbarians. Chopsticks would be the more civilized choice.” And Arthur had fixed him with another bitter frown, although this time it was slightly softer.

(“Look, some of Yao’s thinking is just _backwards_. Knives are perfectly acceptable to use as cutlery, got that?” Leon was fixed with a steady, unwavering gaze, and could only nod meekly in reply.)

After that, Leon had been scolded for drinking his brown Windsor soup straight out of the bowl instead of using the soup spoon, and trying to use the wrong fork to eat his marrow toast, and Arthur had been forced to go through the functions of all the forks and knives on the table, one by one.

(Leon made sure to pay attention this time. After all, he didn’t want a repeat of what happened at tea.)

After dinner, he was sent up to his room again, with orders not to disrupt Arthur while he worked on “important government business that you don’t need to know about”.

(At least, that was what he’d said when Leon asked, but the boy had doubts about how important it could _really_ be.)

As he sat on the edge of his bed, his feet dangling a few inches (that was what Arthur had called it; Leon’s head was still full of shì cùn and shì chǐ*) above the floor, he suddenly wished for Yao’s cooking. He hadn’t eaten much, and his stomach was still half empty. But he was glad Arthur hadn’t pushed him to take more food; Leon thought Arthur must have known he wouldn’t like most of the dishes, or he wouldn’t have been allowed to leave the table so early.

(Leon remembered how Yao would make them stay at the table until they’d filled their bowls once, twice, a third time, and how he would’ve said, “You awful Brit! You’re going to starve the poor child if he doesn’t eat at least two helpings of everything!”)

The food was indeed rather unpalatable. Although Arthur had looked pointedly at the heron pudding and then at Leon, clearly asking him to eat it, Leon hadn’t touched the stuff, which smelled slightly of fish and still looked like a dead crane.

(Leon knew Yao would’ve been scandalized to see a relative of his precious red crowned cranes sitting on the dinner table.)

The jellied eels had looked horrifically raw, their slimy mucus shining and glossy, and the fish-paste-covered toast was salty and tasted like herring, fishy and smelling strongly of the ocean. The roast potatoes were burnt and charred, their black crusts bitter on Leon’s tongue, and the jello-like yellow yolks of the chopped eggs in the dish Arthur called “kedgeree” looked undercooked and liquid-y.

Leon sighed. He supposed he’d just have to get used to the cuisine. After all, it was supposed to be “refined food”.

* * *

On the sixth day, Arthur brought Leon to the heart of London to get him new tailored clothes.

(Leon had asked why he couldn’t just keep his old ones, and Arthur had huffed drily, “Your old clothes won’t do at all. The _Oriental fashion_ isn’t the trend here, _if you’ve noticed_.” The answer was almost exactly what he’d expected.)

When they’d walked outside the house, Leon had stared open mouthed at the sleek horse and buggy parked in front of the door until Arthur had nudged him forward, into the dark interior of the carriage. He’d looked around in wonderment, at the velvet seats, the polished wood door, the smooth retractable cover that looked like a bug’s shell. And Arthur had to jab him hard in the ribs and tell him irritatedly to _“stop looking around like that, it’s impolite, don’t you know?”_ ; only then did Leon try to stop staring, try to focus his eyes on his lap instead of out the window. But slowly, as the carriage clattered steadily forwards, he returned to staring, gaping, his eyes wide, trying to memorize every detail. Perhaps... perhaps Arthur was right when he said this was the new dawn of the world.

When they arrived at Riverbloom Tailors, stepping into the cool, brightly lit little shop, Leon gawked. Multicolored fabrics lay on a small table, cut into different sized rectangles, and the walls were lined with shelves holding satin and velvet and chiffon in all the colors of the rainbow. He’d started to walk around the room, admiring all the fabric, when Arthur grabbed his arm and pulled him back, hissing “What are you thinking?! The tailor’s out, and you’re poking around, admiring the place like it’s a museum? It’s impolite!”

So he’d reluctantly sat down in a chair, but got up almost immediately as Arthur called again, rather impatiently this time, “Stand up! Don’t be in haste to seat yourself, alright? We’re guests here, and etiquette says we need to wait for the host while standing.”

(Leon was tempted to lie and say he was tired, but he couldn’t be sure Arthur would make an exception to his _“very important”_ rules of etiquette.)

When the tailor, a short, bespectacled man with graying hair and a gentle smile, walked in the room, Arthur quickly crossed the room and grasped his hand, then engaging him in quiet conversation. Leon had watched from his corner of the room, unsure of whether to join them, until Arthur had waved a hand for him to come. He’d trotted over to the two adults, then winced when he saw Arthur’s grimace of disapproval at the way he’d walked.

But the tailor didn’t seem to mind, and he hummed slightly as he took Leon’s measurements, apparently quite at ease. When he’d finished, Leon had been instructed to sit and wait while Arthur talked with the tailor about the types of clothes he needed. Leon had watched them as he played with the edge of the seat cushion and fingered his slightly overlong sleeve, trying to overheard what the two men were saying about him. And as he watched, he saw Arthur’s face darken, saw the tailor lean in with interest, and Leon strained to hear what was being said.

_“He’s from China? Really? Did you adopt him?”_

_“No. I’m merely his guide while he stays in London.”_ Arthur’s voice was clipped, tart. Leon began to feel uncomfortable, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he kept listening.

 _“That’s very interesting! So, does he speak about things like philosophy and literature, high minded concepts that were the spawns of brilliant minds?”_ Leon watched as the tailor leaned in towards Arthur in a conspiratorial fashion before continuing in a whisper, _“What are the Chinamen like? Do you know?”_ Leon saw Arthur’s frown deepen, his jaw set in a grimace. His voice grew louder, and Leon did not need to strain his ears to be able to hear Arthur’s tirade.

“No, I do not know anything about the Chinese people. As for the boy, he is like any normal child, and as children need proper clothing to wear,” Leon could feel Arthur’s voice chilling his bones in its iciness, “I suggest you get on with the tailoring. I would like five of every garment I have just listed, except for the evening gown, of which I would like only three. Please make sure the clothes are not all the same color, and do not make any too flashy. The boy has said he prefers red, but I hope you will not make everything the color of a hot Indian pepper, or I shall retract my order and find another tailor who can do a more _suitable_ job. I expect everything to be ready in three days. At what time should I pick the things up?” The tailor was stunned into silence, his mouth a perfect _‘o’_ , and Leon watched as he spluttered, “Oh- um, I think I’ll be able to finish them at- at three in the afternoon, sir.” Arthur’s eyebrows went up slightly.

“Three, indeed? Well then, I shall see you then to discuss the price. Leon, come. We’ve no more business here.” And as they walked through the door, which tinkled as it swung shut, Leon glanced at the tailor, who was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

* * *

On the seventh day, Leon sat down with invited guests for the first time in his life. Yao had never let him personally meet any of the people who regularly came to their sì hé yuàn, and Leon had only been able to lurk in unnoticed corners, behind pillars, peeking through the narrow crack in the door, watching and eavesdropping as they discussed trade and politics and the new county magistrate.

But this time, it was Arthur who’d told him he was allowed to sit and have tea with his guests. They were nations, Arthur had said, nations he’d taken under his wing _“to raise and nurture and make gentlemanly in their habits”_.

(“Just like I’m teaching you,” he’d added, and Leon wondered if the other colonies were ripped from their old homes the same way he was.)

Leon had been given a thorough lecture on manners, how he shouldn’t drum his fingers on the table,

(“It’s an indication you’ve a vacant mind, and very distracting, to say the least.”),

how he shouldn’t fidget,

(“I didn’t get a chance to remind you at the tailor’s yesterday, but you’d better not do it again.”),

and how he “mustn’t forget any of those tea drinking manners I told you, yes?” And then there was the long list of impolite and off-limit topics: long stories, politics, rumors, religious discussion, and nothing “somber or melancholy, because I intend this to be a cheerful little talk over tea and not a crying session.”

And when the front door finally opened, Leon saw four people, all taller than him, all looking distinctly different. One was light skinned, a singular golden blonde curl sticking out from the rest of his wavy locks. He lacked Arthur’s eyebrows, and, Leon thought, Arthur’s severity. The two standing in the middle were darker, their skin tan and hair brown. Both sported bushy eyebrows and a resigned, almost bitter, expression, like they’d choose to be anywhere else but here, at Arthur’s stoop. The taller one had two stray hairs that stuck up, and his companion (or was it his brother?) had what looked like ram horns on the sides of his head. The fourth nation was the darkest of all, and as Leon laid eyes upon him, the one that felt most familiar. His crow black hair and rich brown complexion contrasted sharply with the fine gold chain around his neck, and the crisp cream button down he was wearing felt forced upon him somehow. It didn’t fit right with the rest of him.

And finally, after standing and staring blankly, Leon came to his senses and welcomed them in. The palest one smiled softly, said quietly,

“Thanks for leading us in, but we know the way well enough. We’ve been to Arthur’s plenty of times before. I’m Matt, by the way. You might know me as Canada.” And Leon had racked his brain for a _Canada_ or a _Matt_ , couldn’t remember hearing about anyone like that, and had taken “Matt’s” extended hand, which was surprisingly warm, and let go of it quickly. And as they walked through the hall and into the tea room, where Arthur sat, patiently waiting, Leon could hear whispers behind him, low and mutinous, of things like _“The old man must’ve taken another colony that never belonged to him. Who’d you reckon he’s supposed to represent?”_ And Leon knew that his feelings of unfamiliarity and confusion in Arthur’s house were nothing compared to what some of the other colonies felt.

The tea was alright; Leon remembered his manners and how to hold his pinky out and all the things he couldn’t talk about, and the one time he chanced a fleeting glance at Arthur, he caught sight of a small, pleased smile before it disappeared behind the fine china teacup. And Leon had been happy that he’d finally done something right.

Leon learned the names of the others; “Brown-haired Ram Horns” was New Zealand, Toby, his brother was Jett of Australia, and then there was Neeraj, India, who’d raised his eyebrows but said nothing when Arthur introduced him as _“Leon Wang, the representative of Hong Kong”_.

They’d talked about random things, silly things, and Leon had tried to keep up with it all despite everything he didn’t know; he tried to store all the strange words he’d heard in his head so he could look them up later, or maybe ask Arthur, but he kept forgetting the ones he’d remembered earlier and everything was jumbling together inside his head and _what was that thing called again? Was it a father short-legs? Father long-legs?*_

But when Arthur had left the room to get more sugar, the conversation shifted. Neeraj had looked quickly out of the parlor to make sure Arthur was gone, then said,

“Did Arthur change your name, Wang Ka Lung?”

Leon had stared at him, the perfect pronunciation of his old name ringing in his ears, and only nodded mutely.

“But... how did you know?” And Neeraj had smiled, his eyes twinkling.

“Wang Yao’s been a good friend for a long time. You probably don’t remember me, since I haven’t visited much since the East India Company came to my country. But,” he continued, “we’re here to give you some advice. I don’t know how well England will treat you, but just be on your guard around him, alright?” He laid a hand on Leon’s shoulder, and Leon didn’t try to shake it off.

(If it was Arthur, he definitely would’ve tried to get away.)

“I- Well, you guys- pardon me, I meant you gentlemen-” Jett snorted, and Leon looked at him, somewhat reproachfully.

“Arthur said that’s not polite.” His words were greeted with a smirk, half smug and a smidge spiteful.

“And _Arthur_ said to try not to use contractions, didn’t he? Look, we’ve all been through this _thing_ ,” he waved his hands wildly at the room before continuing, “where Arthur takes each colony he’s ‘adopted’ ”, Jett made air quotes with his fingers, “and brings them to his house for a bit, to show them the ‘ways of the new world’”, (the air quotes went up again), “or whatever garbage he spits out. The point is, that’s just the old man’s _delusion_. Sometimes, hell,” (Leon gaped at the use of _that_ word, but wisely said nothing), “ _most_ times, he hurts us more than he helps. I assume you’ve got some natives in your country, and I can tell you from _personal experience_ your natives might not get treated good at all.”

There was silence, and as Leon looked around the table, all he could see were three sets of grim faces, three mouths set in thin lines of determination. He looked at Matt, who’d been silent ever since Neeraj had started talking.

“Um- well, Matt, what about you?” He watched as Matt slowly looked up at him, his almost violet eyes slightly sad.

“I believe the others. Arthur... he can be sly at times. I don’t think you should ask me for advice, though. Me and Alfred, he’s America, by the way, we’re more like special circumstances. We have more European influence in us than Jett and Toby and Neeraj. So... I’d be cautious, but... I can’t tell you exactly what would happen, seeing as I haven’t experienced what the... majority has seen.” And he laid an hand on Leon’s shoulder, much like how Neeraj had, and gave him a wan smile before continuing.

“We’re not- or at least Neeraj and Toby and I- we’re not trying to scare you, even though we might not’ve made the best impression.” Toby chuckled, Jett laughed openly, and Neeraj was grinning more broadly than Leon had ever seen him. Matt smiled at them, then continued. “We just want to tell you to be on your guard, alright? And if you want to talk to somebody, well, we’ve all been and we all still are in the same spot as you, so...” He trailed off, looking slightly awkward. Neeraj stepped in.

“We’re just trying to say you can trust us, Ka Lung. I know you must miss Yao, but... you’ll get over it. The new world can be- oh, Arthur, it took you long enough!” Leon turned around. Arthur had indeed come back, carrying another sugar bowl.

“Yes, I’m back. There wasn’t any more sugar in the cupboard, so I had to run down to the larder to try and find some. But I forgot where I put it, so that took me a bit longer.”

The rest of the tea passed without incident; the others made absolutely no mention of what they’d just told Leon about Arthur, and Leon had followed their lead and kept quiet about it as well. But a thousand questions had filled his head, and he barely noticed when Arthur had said,

“Well, I suppose you all must go back to your houses now. I’ll be around sometime later to visit you and talk about more serious governmental matters, but thank you for coming for this more lighthearted chat.” And when Leon had finally gotten his bearings, he’d rushed to stand up and lead Neeraj, Jett, Toby, and Matt to the door and wave them off.

Matt stepped over the threshold first, after ruffling Leon’s hair and smiling at him. Jett and Toby both winked as they passed, and when only Neeraj was left, Leon had held out his hand and shook the Indian’s, whispering a small “Thanks” that reverberated in the air. Neeraj had smiled, then swiftly crossed the threshold and joined the others.

And Leon had watched them climb into the horse drawn carriage and disappear out of sight before he closed the door quietly and went back to the parlor to help Arthur clean up.

At the least, if life under Arthur’s watch would be exactly as he’d heard, Leon would have four people he could talk to, four people who’d understand.

**Author's Note:**

> **Historical Notes and Inaccuracies**
> 
> This oneshot is set in 1842, and at that point India was not under direct control of the English crown. However, the British East India Co. did have a large presence there, so I decided to make India living “under” England here for plot.
> 
> The attitude of the tailor who appeared on the 6th day comes from what I read [here](https://sacu.org/victorian). Most Victorians were ignorant of life in Qing Dynasty China, and they wanted to ignore reality in order to imagine it how they wanted to, so it was a pretty mysterious place. Although many British merchants and government officials traveled to China, no one really brought back any information about it (a quote from the linked source says: “We know that it [China and its cities] exists, and that is nearly all we know.” So I imagine the tailor to be very curious of this “exotic Oriental country” and try to get gossip out of Arthur, who would obviously disapprove of gossip and rebuff him.
> 
> I took a lot of inspiration from tumblr user [stirringwinds](https://stirringwinds.tumblr.com)'s portrayal of Australia and NZ. I also made their appearance reflect more of their mixed Aboriginal/Maori/European heritage, as well as making them unhappy with how England’s running things over there (many settlers fought against the native Aborigines/Maori, and the New Zealand Wars were a series of conflicts between British settlers and Maori). Please tell me how I could improve them, AUS and NZ are not my strong point in history!
> 
> *Si he yuan: a house structure in China that literally translates to "four sided garden/space". It's basically a square house with an open garden space in the middle.
> 
> *Shi cun (市寸) and shi chi (市尺): two ancient Chinese measurements equivalent to 3.33 cm and 33.33 cm respectively. I'm not sure if they were still used in Qing Dynasty but I’m gonna use them here. [More info here](https://mandarinhouse.com/chinese-measurements-vs-metric).
> 
> Research on Victorian bathing habits is sourced from [this link](https://nypost.com/2016/10/23/the-beauty-routine-of-a-victorian-woman-was-anything-but-glamorous/), and the contrast Leon experienced is extrapolated based on ancient Chinese cleaning methods described [here](https://m.theepochtimes.com/surprisingly-advanced-ways-the-ancient-chinese-bathed-and-did-laundry_1993963.html/amp). I imagine these habits were still mainstream during the Qing Dynasty, and they were miles better than the crude methods of Victorian England.
> 
> Information on Victorian dishes is from [here](https://soyummy.com/victorian-weird-foods); the food described is horribly gross and definitely a 0/10.
> 
> Research on Victorian etiquette and things not to do in public are from [here](http://backinmytime.blogspot.com/2012/11/more-victorian-manners.html) and [here](http://backinmytime.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-19th-century-guide-to-annoying.html); I tried to pick taboos that are different from modern society but they might not have been obvious.
> 
> The idea for day three comes from [a post](https://hongkongenthusiast.tumblr.com/post/190890397160/hong-kong-vs-the-dark-analysis-from-what-i) by [hongkongenthusiast](https://hongkongenthusiast.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> About Leon's haircut on day two: it’s stated in canon that Leon used to have a ponytail, and he would’ve worn a queue hairstyle in the Qing Dynasty.
> 
> HK’s Name: It's canon that his name is Wang Jia Long, which is changed to Wong Ka Lung in Cantonese. As for traditional Chinese characters, his name would be 王嘉龍, where the 3rd character means “dragon”.
> 
> Feedback is welcome and appreciated!


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